by Holly Lisle
"Then I shall convince you. Nine women have been born of the union of human woman and veyâr man in all of known history. If there were others, and there may have been, they either did not survive childhood, or did not come to Oria when the time was right—or if they did come, they remained hidden. The Vodi are always women—the union of human woman and veyâr man, when it produces a living offspring, produces a girl. Why this is, I do not know."
"Sounds like a genetic thing, except that I'm not buying your story. First, I know who my parents were, and they were both human. So I couldn't be a Vodi. Second, what you propose is impossible anyway, because a human woman and a veyâr man come from completely different evolutionary chains on different worlds, in what could very well be different universes. They could not possibly share chromosomes similar enough to produce any offspring. The odds of uncountable billions of evolutionary changes proceeding in lockstep on two worlds, to create two species that are completely different but that can produce viable offspring? Jesus Christ! I only took high-school biology, but even I know that's impossible. And third, I've seen the handiwork of some of your Old Gods, and I'm not leading anybody's army against them. I served my country, and I got my honorable discharge, and I worked out all my ambitions to save the world in the interim. Sorry."
Servants brought trays in the silence and placed them before Molly and the Imallin, and a taster stepped forward and took a bite of each dish from each plate, and covered the food again, then stood there. Molly realized they were waiting to see if he would die—wouldn't that be an exciting job? Minimal chance of advancement, the only benefit the fact that you got to eat some pretty tasty food—and she had to hope his family would get a good pension if he kicked off in the line of duty.
But he didn't—this time, anyway. Finally satisfied that the food was safe, the Imallin, still silent, picked up his two-pronged fork and took a bite. Molly did as he did.
Good food. Awkward silence.
Finally, when they'd nearly finished the meal, the Imallin said, "When you looked in the mirror today, you noticed a change in your appearance, correct? Birra mentioned to me that you were quite upset."
"That would be putting it mildly."
"And the changes that have taken place in your appearance—they do not suggest anything to you?"
"Suggest what? I figured that you people did some sort of magic on me."
The Imallin shook his head slowly. "We are of this world. We cannot do magic. Only the Old Gods, who come from other worlds, can do magic. And you, of course, but you are the Ninth Vodi."
"Right. I'm the Vodi, who is prophesied to rid your world of the Old Gods. And I can do magic. And I get dragged here against my will, and suddenly I start getting taller and thinner, and my hair turns a funny color, and my eyes turn a funny color, and…" She paused, and thought about that for a moment. Her eyes had become as green as veyâr eyes. If she was not as tall as a veyâr, she split the difference between human and veyâr height pretty neatly. Her hands still had the right number of fingers and the right number of joints for a human, but her hair was a color much more akin to veyâr colors than human colors.
Could there be some truth to Seolar's story? Could she have been born of both worlds?
He was watching her eyes, and in them he apparently saw something he liked, for he smiled a satisfied smile. "You begin to grasp the truth."
Molly ran her hands back through her hair in frustration. "I don't see how what you suggest could be true. Science simply doesn't work that way."
"Ah. Science." The Imallin nodded sagely. "We know of science. It is the simplicity of mass and weight, of action and reaction. It is logic, and things that can be measured, and things that can be seen, and it gives results that anyone who follows directions well can repeat."
"Yes."
"You weren't born of science. Your mother summoned you into her womb through magic. She and your father—your true father—spent three years trying to conceive you, because this world needed you so desperately. There was nothing simple in your conception, and nothing simple in the sacrifices that your mother made to give you life."
"Hard to imagine that I meant so much if she just pawned me off on strangers."
"The only reason I could imagine her doing that was if something threatened your life, and she thought you would be safer hidden away."
Molly took another sip of her drink, then emptied the glass and shoved it across to him so that he could refill it. She was starting to believe him, but believing him wasn't the same as understanding him. She shrugged. "Maybe. I could think better of her if that were the case."
"Your father might know. I will ask him."
Finally, that little bit of data hit Molly. "Wait a minute. You know my father? He's alive?"
"Very much so. He's the Imallin of a domain some way off from this one. He is growing older, and his son is training to take his place."
Molly held up a hand. "His son. My—brother?"
"Half brother. But, yes."
"So I not only have a father and a half sister I've never met, but a half brother, too."
Seolar was studying her with an expression she read as concern. "You're upset by this?"
"I've spent a lot of time being lonely. A lot of time yearning for family I never had. This is—um, it's fairly tough."
He rested a hand lightly on hers. "I'm sorry for your suffering, and for your loneliness. Had we been able to find you, we would have brought you here sooner. As soon, in fact, as you didn't show up when you were expected. I wish we could have done more."
She laughed a little. "Yeah, me too. But I still get a chance—at least with my father and my brother. That's more than I ever thought I'd have." She took a long last gulp of her javichi, and sighed. "I don't know where I fit into this world, but I'm starting to believe that I do. It scares me, but I can deal with being scared. I've been scared a lot of times. I just—don't know what I'm supposed to do."
He refilled her glass and handed it back to her. "You belong here. I'll do everything I can to make sure you find your home here. We want you here, Molly. I want you here. I'll help you find your place in Oria."
She studied him as he sat across the table; she found herself liking him. The ornate facial tattoos seemed very subtle in the flickering lamplight. He didn't seem human to her, but in a way she didn't quite understand, he seemed right.
Cat Creek
Eric joined Lauren in the jail cell, put down a folding chair for himself and one extra, and sat for a moment watching Jake push a ball across the floor; Jake giggled wildly every time it bounced off the bars and rolled back at him.
Lauren glanced from him to the extra chair, then back to him.
"Pete's coming in any second now. He needed to secure the front door to make sure we wouldn't be disturbed. It would blow hell out of our cover if Pete and I were seen fraternizing with the enemy." He gave her a little smile.
"You explained things to Pete?"
"Not yet. We'll go over that. I got the autopsy reports back—they put a hell of a rush on them, and I figured both of you needed to hear what the pathologist found."
Pete came in, nodded rather stiffly to Lauren, and took the empty seat. "Doors all locked, answering machine on, sign on the door says 'Back in fifteen minutes.' If we take longer than that, I don't see it will be a problem."
Eric nodded. "Fifteen should do us. I'll be quick. First, Lauren, you recognize this?" He handed her an envelope. She turned it over, nodded, and said, "It's one of about a thousand letters I wrote to Brian while he was TDY overseas." She glanced at Pete. "TDY—that's temporary duty. Sorry; I still think in military acronyms. They were a part of Brian's and my life the whole time we had a life." She turned back to Eric. "I'm not going to ask how you got it."
"I had to search your house. I'll show you why in a moment, and I do apologize, but it was…it was life or death. I'm going to show it to Pete now. Pete, don't read the letter. Just look at the handwriting, okay?"
; Pete took the letter, unfolded it carefully, looked at it for a moment, then refolded it and handed it back to Eric. Lauren tried not to be annoyed that he didn't hand it to her. It was, after all, her letter, and if it wasn't as important to her as the stack of letters that Brian had written to her in return, still it was part of what she had left from that time when he had been in her life.
Eric put the letter in an evidence bag, then removed an already-sealed evidence bag, and said, "I can't take this out of the plastic. But Lauren, please look at it and tell me what it is."
Lauren took the plastic from him, looked at the unfolded paper on which was written, "Meet me at my house at midnight. I know who the traitor is, and have proof." The signature read, "Lauren Dane." But she had never seen the paper before, had never seen the handwriting, and couldn't imagine what she was looking at. She looked up at Eric. "A bad joke?"
Eric took the bag from her and handed it to Pete. "What do you think, Pete?"
Pete read it, looked at it carefully, and said, "She didn't write it."
"I agree. It was in Debora's pocket when we fished her out of the swamp—the coroner noticed it and gave it to me. This is the piece of evidence that made me decide that pretending to arrest you would probably be safest for all of us for the time being."
Pete was frowning. "Either you or I was with her all evening and all night the day Debora was murdered."
"Right. But the killer didn't know that. Nobody but you and I knew that Lauren was locked up in the sheriff's station that night. I can't be sure yet, but I think the killer did know Lauren was my prime suspect in Molly McColl's disappearance, and thought it would be pretty easy to pin a second crime on her."
Pete nodded. "You find any other similarities between McColl's disappearance and Bathingsgate's death?"
"At this point, only that there was no sign of struggle at either victim's home. If we find Molly's body, we'll possibly be able to establish some other correlations. In the meantime, let me tell both of you what the pathologist discovered about Debora Bathingsgate. Time of death was roughly 4 A.M. The body was discovered at approximately 5 A.M.—which means whoever dumped her out there didn't waste any time doing it, and when Tom found her, she hadn't been there long."
"If he didn't put her there."
"Which has crossed my mind, but Laurinburg's forensics expert says his boat came up clean—no human blood, no matching fibers, no stray hairs—things that would have been very likely to show up, considering the condition of her body."
Pete said, "All right. Just wanted to make sure we weren't missing anything."
"The water in Debora's lungs was tap water, and the finger marks on her throat, plus ligature marks at her wrists, make it look like she was held under the water in someone's bathtub, or something similar, and that she fought like hell. After death, her killer hit her on the back of the head with something large and heavy. Most likely a cast-iron frying pan from the shape of the skull fracture, and very possibly a frying pan that we're going to discover the killer has planted in Lauren's kitchen for us to find when we search her house."
Lauren felt sick. She glanced at Pete, and saw that he was watching her. In his eyes, for the first time, she saw sympathy.
"Someone wants you in trouble bad, girl," he said softly.
She nodded. "But who? I didn't know I'd managed to piss anyone off that badly."
"We'll get to that. I have some ideas," Eric said. "Back to Debora. After her killer bashed her head in, the body was taken to the swamp and dumped."
Pete said, "Did the killer want it to look like she'd been drowned by accident, or murdered with a pan and then drowned, or what?"
"I'm not sure." Eric was pulling out autopsy photos. "The killer obviously wanted it to be clear that Debora was murdered. He also obviously wanted to pin the crime on Lauren. But exactly what he wanted us to think were the sequence of events that got her into the swamp, I have not a clue. I'm guessing that he wanted us to think that Lauren was trying to cover up her crime by making it look like a drowning, or perhaps he wanted us to think that she was still alive when she went into the swamp and she drowned there…" He shrugged. "I'm certain he didn't realize those finger marks on the throat would show."
"Why is that?" Lauren asked.
"Because they're a dead giveaway that you didn't kill her. The hand that made them has a reach about a third bigger than mine." He held a hand out, palm forward, to Lauren. After a tiny hesitation, she raised her own hand and pressed her palm to his. His hand dwarfed hers.
She winced at the contact, cringing inside for appreciating the warmth and the pleasure of human touch; she pulled her hand back quickly.
"Not her for sure, then," Pete said. "But we already knew that."
"So we're going to be watching Lauren's house to see if anyone drops off a frying pan. We're going to be watching people we know, and listening for questions about the arrest we made. We're going to be waiting to see who wants to hang around here the most—at this point, I'm going to be real suspicious of anyone who takes a sudden interest in police work."
Lauren said, "Why me, though?"
Eric's glance flicked left, to Pete, then focused on Lauren's face. "Your parents had a few enemies." His tone was careful. "I can only speculate, but this might go back to them."
"Then the…" she almost said notebook, but stopped herself in time. "…the story I heard about them being murdered might be true, too."
Eric nodded. "Could be. We could really use a lead right about now."
The phone rang. All three of them jumped. "Want to let the machine get it?" Pete asked.
"No." Eric jumped to his feet and took off down the hallway.
Lauren heard him answer, heard a couple of cryptic responses, and heard the skritch of a pencil on paper. A few moments later he came back down the hall, and his expression made it clear he'd had bad news.
"That was Ernest Tubbs," he said slowly. "He was out hunting and flushed up a few buzzards. He thinks he's found Molly McColl's body out back of Tucker Farm."
"Oh, hell," Pete said softly. "Want me to take it?"
"No. I have an idea of what I'm looking for, and I saw the last crime scene. I'll go. You stay here with Lauren and Jake, and don't let anyone—anyone—near them for any reason."
Pete nodded. "They'll go through me to get to them, boss." He drawled the "boss" with an irreverent little grin, and Lauren realized the two were much more colleagues than boss and employee.
"I'm on my way, then." He stopped, turned to Pete. "You have any extra film? I used the whole last roll at the swamp, and I haven't even taken it out of the camera yet."
"Don't have any. Leave the roll with me and I'll drop it off—that way it won't be rolling around under the seat of your car for a week. You can pick some up on the way out to the scene. There's two, three places between here and there that stock film."
Eric turned and headed down the hall again.
"Keep us up with what's going on," Pete called after him. "We're going to be stuck in here with nothing to do but stare at our belly buttons and sing campfire songs."
Lauren heard Eric, already at the front door, laugh, though it sounded more like a bark. "I'm almost ready to trade places with you, Pete. Almost."
Then the bell on the door clattered, and the door slammed shut, and Pete and Lauren gave each other appraising looks.
Copper House, Ballahara
Molly enjoyed the sunlight that streamed through the windows of her new apartment. No visible copper in this place, though she suspected hidden copper, just because she assumed the builders would be paranoid enough to want it everywhere, to keep the rrôn away. The bigger rooms, all panel and stone, with pale wood floors and gorgeous silk and tapestry-work everywhere, were actually an improvement over the Copper Suite, hard as that was to imagine. No grilles on the windows, and she wasn't in a tower anymore, but only about one story above the ground. Elegant carved wooden doors this time, and a feeling of warmth to the place that simply hadn
't existed with metal walls and a metal floor.
Seolar had been as good as his word. She could open the doors and go out. She simply had no idea where to go, or how to find her way around the place, so after a short trip down the hall to distinguish a few landmarks, she'd returned to the apartment and sat down to play the guitar for a while.
Deep into mangling Beethoven's Für Elise, she almost didn't notice the knock at her door. She turned, expecting to see Birra or one of her other guards, but instead she found Seolar standing in the doorway, dressed for the outdoors and with clothing draped over one arm.
"I'd like to take you riding," he said. "The weather is somewhat less cold than it has been, the beasts are restless and need to stretch their legs, and I would have you see some of this world that is to be yours. Will you come with me?"
